CHAPTER 1

The last morning stars lingered over the Big House when Gene Hinton saw the mourners coming up the road. Under the dormant frangipani trees, still yet to bloom, the procession approached slowly, quietly. As it came closer, Gene rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and folded his arms, hugging himself against the morning breeze in the front yard. He knew the afternoon would be hot—and maybe less humid than yesterday, the Lord willing—but for now, nothing could warm him. He dug his shoes into the dirt and watched the road. The sight of the man in the front, dressed in white robes and with a shaved head, pulled at Gene’s heart.

“The eldest son,” came a voice from behind. Gene turned to see Arthur, the Hintons’ servant, standing on the porch steps. He held his arms behind his back, allowing the front of his crisp, ironed kurta to billow in the breeze. “Kindly, sahib,” Arthur said, asking permission to approach. When Gene nodded, Arthur stepped forward and continued. “For Hindus, the eldest son leads the mourning of the father.” A pause, and then, “But you won’t ever have to worry about that, sahib.”

As if on cue, chattering voices and loud footsteps arose from somewhere inside the house. Gene’s older brothers were awake. A cold dread filled him down to his shoes. In a few minutes, they’d have to leave to meet Uncle Ellis at the train station. But Gene couldn’t stop watching the lane.

He didn’t want to think about his father’s inevitable death, or of anyone’s—twelve-year-old boys didn’t have to think of that sort of thing, so he changed the subject.

“Did you know the man?” Gene said. “The one who died?”

The procession passed the gate now. A swathe of saffron was draped over the litter, carried by what looked like a dozen men, all either shouldering its burden or placing a hand on the litter, wherever there was space among the garlands of marigolds that dangled from the edges and danced with every step.

Arthur wobbled his head. “I would see him in the marketplace, when I did the shopping for memsahib.”

But Gene could tell from his unsteady lip that the man had meant more to Arthur than that. “Should you maybe go with them? Wherever they’re going?”

“The Kangsabati River, to be cremated,” Arthur said. He bit his lip and looked at the road for a moment. “No, I am needed by the Padre Sahib. We are leaving soon for the burra sahib, na?”

The sound of the car engine firing up startled Gene. Wild monkeys scampered to life in the branches above him, screeching into the dawn. Gene turned to see his father ready at the wheel of the old Chevy. It would take the jalopy a few minutes to warm up. Gene looked back at the lane, but the men had passed them now, leaving only a mottled trail of dust that floated behind them, as if they walked on a cloud.

“To tell you the truth,” Gene said, leaning in, “I’m nervous about meeting the judge. Or Uncle Ellis, I suppose I should call him.”

Arthur tilted his head and looked at him the way one would study a bug.

“I mean, I know my brothers all like him. I don’t remember the last time I met him. I must have been too young. But from what everyone tells me about him, I feel like I should be . . . I don’t know . . .” He trailed off as he scuffed his dusty shoe in the dirt and frowned at his wrinkled trousers. “Better groomed, at least.”

Gene realized the absurdity of his words, reminding himself of the dead man that just passed by not a minute ago. He met Arthur’s eyes and nearly jumped at the dark look on his face. Arthur bent close, his eyes serious.

“There are larger things to worry about with the burra sahib,” he said.

Gene didn’t know what to say. He was about to ask Arthur what he meant when they were interrupted.

“Come on, Gene! Smallest in the middle!”

He looked to see John, Will, and Lee pouring through the front doors, a collective storm of barely contained teenage energy that felt absurd in the quiet morning. They whooped and hollered for no reason that Gene could tell, until he remembered. They had been looking forward to this day all week. Arthur retreated to the car to check that all was set to go, slipping away into the background of the family’s lives again.

“Scooch!” Will said, shoving Gene into the car.

“I’m going,” Gene said, bumping his head on the roof as Will’s shoulder blade jabbed into his chest.

“Come on, make room!” John said, squishing a leg into Gene’s lap.

Then more pressure, this time on his other side, as Lee squeezed in. “Sorry,” Lee said. Lee was only two years older than Gene, but he felt enormous.

Gene couldn’t move while his brothers arranged themselves for the long ride, their limbs sticking out of the open sides of the car.

“That’s better,” John said.

“Humph,” Gene grumbled.

Mrs. Hinton got in on the passenger side. Her cheeks were flushed, her clothes smelling of rose water. “Oh, I look awful,” she said, squinting into her compact mirror. She brushed the faded blonde hairs out of her face. “He’ll think I haven’t been taking care of myself.”

“You look fine,” said Mr. Hinton. He straightened his topi—a large pith helmet to keep out the sun—and switched the headlights on, illuminating the sparse lawn and vine-choked trees in the yard.

“It’s just times like this I wish we could afford another servant, one who could do my hair. Boys! Make room for Arthur to stand.”

Arthur stepped onto the running board and held on to the side of the roof. Even though there was just enough room in the front for one more person, it was reserved for Judge Ellis on the way back, and it didn’t occur to anyone that it might be safer and more comfortable for Arthur to sit there for at least half the ride. “Ready, sahib,” Arthur said. Gene thought he might suffocate before the sun rose.

They turned out of the drive and down the lane and passed the procession along the side of the road. As Mr. Hinton slowed the car, the men kept their heads down and continued walking on their steady and gentle march to the river.

They took a right turn off Grand Trunk Road, and suddenly the station was right in front of them. The rich red brick blended in with the city and yet stood out at the same time—too organized, too neat, too British. As the car made its stop-and-go progress down the road, Gene felt his stomach churn. Without thinking, he raked his fingers through his hair, patted it down, then straightened his collar.

“Boys, try to look decent now,” Mrs. Hinton called over her shoulder. “Pith helmets on. And sit up straight!” She held her compact in one hand as she pinched color into her cheek.

“He won’t be seeing us in the car, Mother,” said John. Mrs. Hinton snapped the mirror shut and turned around, glaring. The boys shifted to more presentable positions.

Only a few vendors were set up in their stalls this early, but the energy around the station always felt the same, always the buzz of anticipation for those who were leaving and those coming home.

Mr. Hinton slowed the car.

“Oh, get closer,” said Mrs. Hinton. “I don’t want to make him walk so far.”

Mr. Hinton somehow managed to wedge the car in between two stalls, its destitute appearance blending in with the humble surroundings. They didn’t worry about leaving it there but instead headed for the station without a look back, dodging hawkers and waste in the street. Much earlier than they had planned to arrive, they sought out the friendly chai wallah and waited by his cart. The old man’s face lit up at the sight of them, salaaming with incantations of “Padre Sahib! Padre Sahib!” Mr. Hinton salaamed back and inquired in Bengali about his health, as the man poured the tea, the freshest of the day.

Gene took his cup and looked around the station. People running late dodged and zipped past everyone, minding the train whistles. Guards slapped their canes to wake the sleepers scattered on the pavement. Gene was used to rushing around, too, always running late for the train to and from school. But today he had time. He saw the girl, no older than himself, rock her baby back and forth in one arm while holding the other aloft as she pleaded with the people who passed by. A cow stood in the archway, flicking away flies with its ears and long eyelashes, chewing something it had no doubt found on the street.

Gene listened to the din of the market echoing off the brick. Clattering tiffin boxes knocked against travelers’ thighs while a tide of shouts flowed through the arches from outside. All around, Gene saw haggard faces, but he couldn’t help smiling every time he came to Howrah Station. The noise, for all its abrasion and ugliness, was one of his favorite things about being home from school. All the sounds of Bengal forced their way into his ears, and he didn’t dare cover them for fear of missing something, anything. In a place like this, so close to the crowded, hot Calcutta, there was no such thing as a breath of fresh air. But the sound breathed life through every being. It pumped through Gene, invigorating him like oxygen, and swam around him until he could almost see it, as rich and packed as the bazaar, as finely detailed as a tapestry, as deep as indigo dye. He closed his eyes and the noise magnified, and he knew that it was something that would never cease.

“Padre Sahib!” A voice struck through his reverie. “Look, Baba, it’s the Hintons!”

It was Ved Hari, an Anglo-Indian friend in Will’s class at boarding school. Ved waved and made his way with his parents through the crowd toward the tea stall.

“Mr. Hari, how d’you do?” Mr. Hinton said, extending a hand to Ved’s father.

“Very good. Do let me buy you another cup, padre. Meeting relatives too?”

“Yes, Judge Ellis is stopping here on his way from Bombay. He’s just been on holiday to South Africa, if you can believe it. And no, that’s all right, I’ve had plenty.”

“What a beautiful sari, Mrs. Hari,” Mrs. Hinton said. “And Ved, you’re looking smart! Someone special visiting?”

Mrs. Hari smiled modestly and looked to her husband.

“No one like Mr. Ellis anyway,” Mr. Hari said. “Is he a high court judge now?”

Mrs. Hinton beamed. “Soon, I imagine. But he’s still stationed in Simla.”

“Oh? Trouble up there, I heard.”

“Don’t worry, he’s been on holiday. Far away from all that.”

Will elbowed Ved. “Training hard for the Games, Ved?”

“Sure I am. Only a month away. And someone’s got to unseat the Hinton relay team this year. You know, I think it’s unfair you’re all on the same team.”

“Take it up with the judge,” said John.

“I’m just saying you’re all so fast. Well, except—”

“Veddie, we’re missionary boys,” said Lee. “We do everything together.”

“Besides,” said Will, “Gene’s so slow, it evens out.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just a farce put on by the British anyway,” Gene mumbled, but then caught the glare from his oldest brother. He sank back behind Lee.

“Well. Dad cares,” John said. “Says it’s good press for the mission. We get a chance to see some donors we don’t normally mix with. That, and anyone new to Calcutta is always curious to know who those strapping American boys are who are always winning.”

“We’re working on Gene,” said Lee. “He’ll be the next Jesse Owens soon enough.”

Will scoffed.

“Who?” said Ved.

“American,” said Will, brightening. “They say he’ll be the star in Berlin. Set three world records last year! Haven’t you been listening to the radio?”

“I don’t listen to American radio,” Ved said. “Except when we’re away at school. Then it’s all anyone does. Remember last year? All the girls from John’s year skipped German to listen to the Academy Awards.”

“Well, we’ll bring ours when we go back, and we can listen to the Olympics,” said Will.

“I just hope India shows strong in field hockey,” said Ved.

The Haris exchanged more pleasantries with Mr. and Mrs. Hinton, then quickly made off for their platform. As they disappeared into the crowd, John shook his head and muttered, “We’re not losing to an Anglo team, that’s for sure.”